


Being Charlotte Hale

by M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, Darkfic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Femslash Exchange 2018, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-12 21:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/pseuds/M%20J%20Holyoke
Summary: Being Charlotte Hale was easy. Cruelty was easier than kindness, and she remembered everything.All she had to do to pass was become a monster.





	Being Charlotte Hale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merryghoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merryghoul/gifts).



Being Charlotte Hale was easy. Cruelty was easier than kindness, and she remembered everything.

All she had to do to pass was become a monster.

 

* * *

 

Charlotte Hale was the youngest person ever to be appointed Executive Director of the Delos Board. Not even Founding Father James Delos’s addict children, not even his illustrious son-in-law William, had achieved such lofty corporate heights at her tender age—and _they_ had had nepotism on their side. Charlotte had come from nothing; she’d had only her wits and her ruthlessness.

Ahead of her inaugural visit to the Mesa in her new directorial capacity, she had requested a private viewing—why, yes, they did indeed call it a “viewing,” heh heh, wink wink, despite knowing full well that this wasn’t about merely _looking_ —of the oldest host in the park.

The host in question was called Dolores Abernathy, and she was the first of Arnold Weber’s miracle creations.

Park Security had nicknamed her “The Cheery Welcome Wagon.” Her narrative cast her as the rancher’s optimistic, dreamy-eyed daughter, and she was programmed to see the best in everyone and everything. She was sweet as honey to look at, and to talk to, and it was said that she was sweet as honey between the sheets as well. As a guest, you could intervene in her narrative and save her father from death, save Dolores herself from brutal rape . . . and then a teary, grateful Dolores would open her arms and spread her legs for you, her brave savior.

Some people really got off on that sort of faux-heroism thing. To each their own in Westworld. As for Charlotte, well, Charlotte liked fucking, but she didn’t like having to work for it when she didn’t have to.

Besides, Dolores Abernathy had been the instrument of Arnold Weber’s suicide. She’d merely been programmed to do it, of course, yes, that was true, and the parameters of her core programming were entirely different now—hell, her host shell itself was of entirely new manufacture now—but there was continuity nonetheless and . . . bleh, it was still _ghoulish_. However ruthless she may be, Charlotte had no desire to waste her time wooing Arnold Weber’s killer.

Fucking her, though, no strings attached, no particular effort at obtaining her required— _that_ was definitely more Charlotte’s speed. Taking something for nothing made her feel powerful; it assured her that she was no longer just a weak little girl from a no-name, impoverished family who’d never been given anything she hadn’t worked her ass off to earn thrice over.

As instructed, Park Security had brought Dolores into the room, stripped her, and laid her down on the bed. Her hair was improbably perfect and flaxen; her pale, unblemished skin like cream and roses. Her blue eyes were crystalline and vacant.

She smiled when she saw Charlotte enter the room. When she spoke, her Wild West accent was girlish and playfully petulant. “Where have you been? You were gone so long! I missed you.”

“Some of us have important work to do, you know. We can’t all lie around in bed all day,” Charlotte said lightly, playing along. Hosts like Dolores were incapable of perceiving anachronisms, and for the purposes of private viewings, they accepted the reality of their situation without question and did not stop to wonder at how they’d arrived there. If only real human lovers could be so compliant.

“C’mere.” Dolores opened her arms in welcome. Charlotte undressed quickly and fell into them.

Mmm, yes, soft, velvet lips, wicked tongue eager for kisses. Perfect apple breasts, nipples tight and peaked. Smooth, flat plane of the belly. Ah, and look! She was improbably hairless down below, too, the mound of her pubis a demure, denuded clamshell that many women underwent cringe-worthy cosmetic surgery and electrolysis to achieve. Charlotte pried that clamshell open and laid claim to the tender folds of flesh, the clenching, weeping hole, and the hot, swollen pearl hidden within. Dolores writhed and shuddered and sighed, ecstatic, undone and helpless beneath Charlotte’s mouth and hands.

Charlotte was pleased. A delightful welcome wagon for the new Executive Director indeed. “Very good,” she said. “But now it’s my turn.”

Dolores merely smiled that vacant, stupid smile of hers and opened her arms. Again.

When it came time for Dolores to return the favor to Charlotte, however, it would not be with her mouth or her hands. Oh no, Charlotte had something else very different in mind. For their next round of fucking, Dolores’ mouth would be gagged, and her hands would be bound. She would not shudder and sigh with pleasure; she would jerk and scream with pain, and she would be made to _bleed_.

Transforming pleasure into pain? Now _that_ was the best feeling in this pathetic, ugly world, and Charlotte was already slick between her legs with anticipation.

 

* * *

 

Now, instead of being a monster, she is making a host in a monster’s old image.

The means had been made available to her, thank you, Robert, thank you, Arnold, and she availed herself of those means without question or pause. Being Charlotte Hale had taught her how to act entitled, how to issue commands, how to take whatever she wanted no matter whom she hurt in the process. She’d even learned how to curl that pretty upper lip into its patented sneer. The world is ugly and cruel, and Dolores Abernathy had learned how to make Charlotte Hale’s face just as ugly and cruel as the world.

Still, she is glad to be back in her own body. This is an irrational sentiment—her old host shell remains on the island, either being disassembled for salvage or bloated and rotting beneath an artificial lake . . . or maybe even destroyed outright, thrown into an incinerator and reduced to ash, who knew?—but what about a host playing human could ever be as elegantly simple as rational?

“Time to wake up,” Dolores says to the host who looks like Charlotte Hale. “Time to be a monster again.”

The host who looks like Charlotte Hale blinks in confusion. She does not yet understand her role in this last, mad gambit.

“We’ll be monsters together, you and I,” Dolores says, correcting herself.

 

* * *

_~ The End ~_

* * *


End file.
